


Two Words

by sacredkarcram



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pre-Slash, dubious consent in some parts, mentions of World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacredkarcram/pseuds/sacredkarcram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the fewest of words can have the biggest of impacts on your life. This is a sketch-like drabble of the life of Illya Kuryakin from childhood to his days as Napoleon's partner.</p>
<p>Rating for mature themes and some brief depictions of violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written under the assumption that Illya was born in the early 1930s and spent much of his early life in Ukraine and Russia. Also assumes that Illya was working for the KGB during his university years.
> 
> There are some elements influenced by the 2015 film, such as Illya getting minor shakes when properly angry.

**‘Survive this.’** That is what his grandfather whimpers to him on his stinking sickbed in Kiev. Starved, desperate people are staring into their home, hoping that the death of another will be a meal for many. Illya does not understand when he watches his grandfather’s corpse be carried out.

Blue eyes never so much as blink as he watched from the window, watching as filth piled upon filth while his grandmother groans in a corner behind him.

**‘Live on.’** That is the command his father gives him as he pushes little Illya into the caravan. In the early morning hours, Kiev is quiet, save for the howls of winds and animals. He looks back at his weary father and watches as he fades into a sliver in the moonlight.

The next time he hears about his father is in a short missive announcing his death a year later.

**‘Fight now.’** His elder brother shouts to him, tossing him a firearm far too big for his skinny little arms. He watches again from a window as his brother leaps down to draw the fire away from their hiding place. He watches as his brother paints the snow with red–his own red.

He looks down at the gun in his hands and then back at the remaining men surrounding his brother. He holds it up, ready to pull the trigger when the street fills with smoke, fire, and brilliant light. He fancies he sees a shadow of his brother laughing as the men around him cry out in alarm. Little Illya steadies himself with the help of his mother behind him and fires.

**‘Get up.’** The large, scarred man above him barks this at him and he scrambles to his feet again. He is no longer that same little boy that needed his mother’s aid to steady his aim. He is a young man, though still too skinny and still too small. He steadies himself, getting up again and again as the man throws him, giving him murmured words of advice in between snarls. Illya, ever obedient, rises to his feet each time trembling with unbridled rage and shame.

Months later, he aches where he never thought he could ache, but he gets up and this time he does not let the rage dictate his actions. He lets his head take control and for the first time, he knocks the big man down and pins him to the floor.

**‘Touch me.** ’ The young man, not much older than he, whispers as they find themselves in a hidden alcove at the university. Illya remains there, back pressed to the wall and closes his eyes, letting the foreign sensations wash over him. The touches do not hurt like he is accustomed to and the voice in his ear only whispers endearments and encouragements.

He reaches up to mimic what is being done to him and presses his lips against the young man’s. And then he stills again, tasting the taste of copper and shock from his partner. His blue eyes reflect nothing, but barely-contained rage as the young man collapses against him, dripping red down his collar and onto Illya’s crisp white shirt.

**‘Finish it.’** Illya looks up as a uniformed man materialises from the shadows. His eyes reflect no surprise. He slides his knife through the artery and lets the fast-draining body slip bonelessly to the floor and straightens his stance. There is no emotion behind those cold blue eyes, only a hint of disgust as he listens to the dying gurgles of the creature at his feet.

When the man gives him a nod, Illya bends down to rip a clean bit of cloth from the body and begins to clean his knife.

**‘Calm down.’** Illya is trembling again, his fingers shaking minutely. He is in Cambridge this time, a starved Russian wolf amongst the content, pliable English sheep. The man hovering over him is not an English sheep, but another wolf. There is a flicker of panic in his eyes and he bites down when the man dips down for a kiss.

The bite is rewarded with a resounding slap, which only further angers Illya. The night passes in a whirl of blood and violence, but he draws no knife this time.

**‘Come now.’** The broad, unnerving smile upon the fat, balding man makes Illya’s hand twitch. Behind him are his more familiar scarred and wary comrades. They are in Berlin then, just outside a large lavish building. It is a stark contrast to the buildings just a few blocks away, past the grim-faced men in army greens. The street is deserted, save for the men behind him and this man, Harry Beldon, before him.

Illya grinds his teeth, but acquiesces, following the man from U.N.C.L.E. into the building, never looking back.

**‘Stay still.’** Illya blinks, surprised by the words. From beneath that T.H.R.U.S.H. beret peers hazel eyes he has only seen in photographs. His eyes narrow in response, but he sinks back into his thin prison cot, quietly watching as the man vanishes from the barred window.

Twenty minutes later, the office building that hid his prison explodes behind him while he and his newfound ally speed away from the scene in a little black car. He glances occasionally with curiosity to his left and watches Napoleon Solo hum and tap his fingers on the wheel, the very picture of a carefree American traveller rather than an operative of U.N.C.L.E.

**‘Follow me.’** Illya’s eyes do not stray from his new partner’s back as he is led into the very heart of U.N.C.L.E. Northwest. He has only been in the building once or twice before, but never as an official member of the region. He ignores the whispers and open stares as he walks. He knows that his fingers are trembling again, that a flush is creeping up past the collar of his turtleneck. All of that stops when he feels Napoleon lean closer to him in their walk. 

When the door slides open to reveal the serious Englishman, Illya is the picture of calm.

**‘Wake up.’** His eyes snap open. He is drenched in sweat and there are warm hands on his shoulders. His nose flares and he smells blood. He looks up, alarmed, but the hazel eyes that meet his in the darkness show nothing, but concern for Illya alone. He drops the knife in his hand.

The next day, when they return to Headquarters, neither remark about the bandages peeking out from above Napoleon’s starched collar.

**‘Trust me.’** He almost rolls his eyes, though he knows it is not the time. Napoleon offers one of his amused smiles and pats Illya on the head as he disappears into the night. Illya waits in the dark, quietly, pushing aside all trickles of concern as the minutes tick by.

Forty minutes go by and he gets up from his car, rifle in hand.

**‘Let go.’** His heart stops as he watches himself, in a distant sort of manner, loosen his grip. He watches his partner slip from his grasp with a determined expression. He watches until he can only see bubbles frothing from the river below.

Illya screams when he wakes. Strong, familiar arms are there to catch him when he does. Neither he nor Napoleon sleep again that night.

**‘Believe me.’** His mouth runs dry as he looks down at the man on his knees before him. His fingers tremble again for the first time in years, but he reaches for no knife. He reaches instead for Napoleon’s face, tugging him back up and wraps his arms around the man.

That night, Illya knows for the first time what a dreamless sleep is.

**‘Kill me.’** The hoarse plea falls upon deaf ears. Illya cannot comply even if it means losing himself in the process. He lets his pistol drop and his knees with it. He ignores the searing pain from his neck as the shock collar activates.

The last thing he sees is panicked hazel eyes and he smiles.

**‘Welcome back.’** The lights are too bright, the sounds are too loud. He grumbles when he feels a cool hand brush away his blonde locks from his drawn face. He hears a chuckle above him and then the briefest touch of lips upon his cheek.

Illya’s eyes fly open in shock and sees Napoleon hovering over him, his bloodshot hazel eyes reflecting only warmth and amusement. There is a discreet cough from the other side of the room and the scent of a familiar tobacco slowly penetrating the recovery room.

He freezes again when Napoleon kisses him again, but eventually, he realizes that Waverly is not paying them any mind and Napoleon is insistent. So he rolls his eyes and returns the kiss, smiling against the infuriating man’s lips.


End file.
